Supplication
by PantyDragon
Summary: "Here's a bit about me: I don't entertain the advances of anachronistic American men on street corners who are likely far too old for me and who go sharking around college campuses. Thank you, Jack Harkness, and goodnight."


AN: So I've been rather obsessed with Uni!Sherlock lately, and I realized that it's been quite a while since I've written a good, unabashed PWP, so you know what I've decided you all need? Some sensuous, fabulous, graphic, morally reprehensible, panty-dampening homoerotic smut. And who is better suited to smut than the irresistible Captain Jack Harkness? Don't tell me you don't want it. Don't even _try_. This is part 1 of 3 (all three of which are increasingly mind-numbing sex), and I've finished most of the next two as well, I'm just a tease, so I'm going to make you suffer.

Enjoy!

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><p>"Ethically questionable."<p>

Those were the words they had used.

Sherlock's fingers tapped his thighs in time with the tap of his feet on the concrete. His lip stung where he'd been biting it in agitation.

"Ethically questionable experiments."

Was it really ethically questionable if thirty students had been stupid enough to agree to it? And besides, the doses of electricity had been substantially below lethal; no one had even been burned, just...startled a bit. And they'd been given fifty quid apiece for their trouble. Ethically questionable my arse, if a pharmaceutical company had done the same, it would've been called a "clinical trial" and they'd have made their test subjects _pay_ to be buggered.

The fact that the test had been meant to test cognition under duress and not to cure any specific ailment was irrelevant.

Arguably, stupidity was an ailment.

Sherlock brushed damp flecks of freshly fallen snow from his hair and shrugged a bit inside his slightly overlarge pea coat. He'd borrowed it; his own had been torn on a window lock a few days ago. His misted breath swept around his ears to the back of his neck as he walked, collecting in cool, sticky beads of moisture on the inside of his turned-up collar, chilling his neck.

What was one to do with one's time if one was banned from the student lab until further notice?

He had never had to think about that before.

That's not to say he hadn't been banned from the student lab before, because he had (explosions are frowned upon, even when contained), but he had always managed to break in if the need should arise, and was largely able to continue his experiments in his dorm room. Not this time. This time they had posted actual security guards to keep him out, and had done a surprisingly good job of placing them strategically. He was sure that they would start to slack off in a matter of days, but in the meantime...Victor was at his father's for the weekend, and he had absolutely nothing to do.

It was nearly midnight and here he was, out of his element, wandering aimlessly around a few blocks from campus, the buzzing and thrumming of his overactive brain nearly unbearable, bored and frustrated and fuming, his eyes jumping from one lit pub window to the next, scoffing at the volume with which a few drunk students could –

_Unf._

"Hey, careful there, you'll hurt somebody," the jauntily smiling figure with whom he had collided put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady him and looked him square in the eye with what he might have called bold inquisitiveness. "Not tipsy, are you?"

A Yank. No wonder. "No, I'm not, thank you, just having a stroll, if you'll excuse me." He shrugged off the man's hand rather primly and moved to sidestep his American roadblock, but the roadblock in question was unexpectedly persistent.

"You're having a stroll in the middle of the night, in the snow?" He repeated, his voice glimmering with an air of critical mirth.

Under most circumstances, Sherlock would have kept walking, would have rolled his eyes and growled under his breath and gone right back about his itinerant brooding, but he couldn't help but notice that there was something very, very out of place about the interloper's coat. His brow furrowed and his eyes scanned the man's frame, absorbing details, connecting dots.

He noticed, but didn't seem to care. In a gesture that was meant to be personable but served only to interrupt Sherlock's train of thought, he extended his hand, eyebrows raised amicably, mouth turned in a dashing half-smile. "Captain Jack Harkness, and who, might I ask, are you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly. "Captain? Captain of what?"

His smile widened. "Well, that's a bit hard to explain at this ah...particular point in time."

"As hard to explain as that coat?" Sherlock challenged.

The captain was taken slightly aback. "What about my coat?"

"It's World War II era, with all the trappings to match, but it's got what…at least a hundred years' worth of wear on it? Repaired a few times, but holding up remarkably well, and your left epaulette has a cord on it that was reattached –by a professional, it looks like - with horse hair. When was the last time a tailor used horse hair to stitch garments, the early 1900s? Where did you get it, how did it get like that?"

He was smiling again, but he now looked more impressed than cavalier. Sherlock still hadn't shaken his hand. He gave up that cause and slipped it into his pocket, opting instead to take a loping half-step closer. "Perceptive of you," he congratulated, "but it's a bit of a long story."

"Really?" Sherlock mused, his eyes darting to the man's belt, "Is the empty gun holster as long of a story? Do you wear it around to keep your keys in or are you just going to a rather half-arsed fancy-dress party? And I can't help but notice that the leather band on your wrist. Electronic, but certainly not a watch. Care to explain that, _Captain_?"

The captain was impressed. Very impressed. As well he should have been. "Well, you are cheeky, aren't you?" He scolded playfully, "Do you always start conversations this way...I'm sorry, didn't catch your name..."

"Sherlock Holmes. And when the situation calls for it, yes."

"Well, Sherlock Holmes," he offered with indomitable charm, "how about you let me buy you a drink, and I'll tell you all about my coat and my..._watch_ and frankly, plenty of other stuff you might want to know about me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Not interested."

"Okay fine, not in me, maybe, I accept that, but the coat and the holster and the watch aren't the only odd things you've noticed, I'll bet?" He baited, "one drink, ten minutes, it's not like you're busy."

"How about...no?" Curiosity be damned, he wasn't going to be chatted up by some snarky, over-confident Yank. He stepped around the intrusive captain and continued on his aimless way down the mostly-empty street, but damn if that man wasn't as relentless as initially anticipated.

He trotted along behind, his long coat billowing rather dramatically behind him. Jack wasn't used to being so easily spurned, and if there was one thing he couldn't let go, it was cleverness. "Alright, no drink, how about you just tell me a bit about yourself and we'll call it even for that whole running into me thing?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth and turned to walk backward a few steps so he could address his antagonist more directly. "Here's a bit about me: I don't entertain the advances of anachronistic American men on street corners who are likely far too old for me and who go sharking around college campuses. Thank you, Jack Harkness, and goodnight."

Jack Harkness, by his very nature, was not so easily got rid of. "You forgot good-looking. And if I were really indiscriminately on the prowl, would I be devoting this much effort to a lost cause?" He ventured, his voice cheerful, lilting, "Maybe I'm just interested in you. Maybe I just think you're _interesting_."

If there was one good way to make Sherlock Holmes slow a retreat, it was an earnest complement. It had exactly that effect. Jack was abreast of him in seconds. "You're very clever. Perhaps too clever for your own good. I know you must find me interesting, too. And you're hardly mistaken, I am interesting. Very much so."

"And modest."

"You're not wrong, you know. This coat's nearly a hundred and twenty years old."

Sherlock stopped dead. "Not possible. It's from the early 40's. Dye of the wool, machine stitch, the buttons, it once belonged to someone in the RAF, if my military history's not too rusty, and there's certainly no logical way that it's more than fifty years old or so."

Jack's eyebrows shot up, and his smile was taunting. "But you know it is. You said it yourself. More than a hundred years' worth of wear, chronologically nonsensical repairs, and it's never left my possession."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Captain Jack Harkness, as I think I may have mentioned."

"Let me see your hand." Sherlock demanded. "Your right, the dominant one."

With a smirk, Jack offered up his hand and Sherlock determinedly stripped the glove from it, turning it over, inspecting it carefully.

"You're a captain of bugger all," Sherlock snorted, apparently satisfied with his examination, he dropped the alleged captain's hand smugly.

Jack was unfazed. "Show me yours," he retaliated.

"Why?"

"Fair is fair." Grudging but curious, Sherlock removed his own gloves and held his ink-stained and abraded fingers out for Jack to see. The captain went over his pale, cold hand attentively, with considerable and perhaps unsuitable tenderness, the skin of his own caressing fingers warming it slightly. Under the guise of keen observation and without the barest hint of a smirk, he brought those slender fingers slowly closer to his face, until they were hovering just a hair's breadth from his lips. With neither warning nor permission, he kissed those middle two fingertips, and, too quickly for Sherlock to pull away, let them slide into his slightly open mouth. As Sherlock stared, suddenly powerless and slightly alarmed, his fingers slipped further into the heat beyond the captain's careful teeth, gliding over his slick, wet tongue until they reached the roof of his mouth, at which point that tongue flicked sideways and dragged along the groove between them, pushing hard enough to force them slightly apart.

Jack finally released his young acquaintance's hand, but not without a terse, painless bite to the pad of his middle finger, a bite that morphed itself suggestively into a smile.

"I'm a captain of whatever you want me to be."

The whirring mechanism of Sherlock's mind had locked fast with a jolt, and his response –though determinedly snarky - was one of the slowest of his life. "Oh, please. Does that line actually work?"

"Well," Jack mused, his smile finally sparking triumphant, "how about I walk you home. Nothing forward, just a walk, and you mull it over, and then when we get to your front door you can tell me if it's worked or not."

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he looked Jack up and down several times, inspecting him, sizing him up, and the captain accepted his cold scrutiny with nothing but charm and strident confidence.

Sherlock wasn't sure where the impulse had come from, and though it was almost entirely alien to him, he decided suddenly that what he was _very_ interested in at this juncture was what else Jack Harkness could do with his tongue. Finally, he smirked impetuously, and with a glance over his shoulder and hardly a sound, headed back the way he had come.

Sherlock was no fool. He knew full well what was likely to happen when he found himself back in front of his dormitory building with this bold and unusual specimen in tow, he had seen the stance, the expression, the gestures, he had even heard it in the captain's voice, smelled it radiating from his skin. He was intelligent enough to know that he was likely getting dangerously out of his depth, but there was one very important thing that he absolutely was not at this particular moment, and was not likely to be for many subsequent moments. That something was bored.

He glanced back over his shoulder as he walked and Jack smiled at him. What a smile. How many, he wondered insightfully, had been swept off their feet by that smile, and those hands, and that mouth...

Sherlock scolded himself. He was starting to sound more salacious than sagacious, and that didn't suit him at all.

He had a key for the side door, he fingered it in his pocket, but he wasn't sure he was willing to open it just yet. The situation needed further assessment. Instead he turned to lean against the brick near the door, letting his coat – Victor's coat, he was reminded with a dull squirm of guilt – bunch up against his neck, and looked Jack directly in his vibrant eyes.

"Well?" The captain wondered playfully, "have you decided?"

"I've decided rather a lot of things." Sherlock replied, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapping it against his thigh pensively. "Not least of which being that showing a complete stranger - who is possibly sexually predatory - where I live is generally a very poor decision." He slid a cigarette from the pack and held it between his fingers as he hunted in the other pocket for a lighter.

"Typically, I would agree, but you in particular seem to have a pretty good handle on things." Jack reassured him in earnest, stepping just a bit closer than would be generally considered polite. "And sexually predatory? Come on, I am genuinely hurt. I'm nothing if not a gentleman."

Sherlock worked his jaw pensively, twiddling his still-unlit cigarette between his fingers. "So if I let you in, what happens then?"

"Anything. Whatever you want. And whatever that is, it'll be the best you've ever had, I promise you."

"Do you?" He had found the lighter, but he didn't take it from his pocket. The cigarette was rapidly losing the battle for most appealing prospect.

"Absolutely." He was now audaciously close, his chest nearly touching Sherlock's as his eyes devoured him. "If that something is stimulating conversation, so be it, but I feel like you can probably get that elsewhere."

Sherlock did not react to Jack's warm breath on his cheek, but nor did he invite it. He merely stood, almost defiant, his piercing gaze unrelenting, until the electricity between them reached fever pitch, until the irritation still writhing in his belly made his fingers curl into fists, until finally, finally, he'd had enough.

The pristine cigarette dropped to the slushy sidewalk.

His grip vicious and his pull demanding, he grabbed Jack's collar and dragged the captain up against him with unapologetic force, pressing their cool, damp lips together and leaving Jack supporting himself on his outstretched hands against the brick. Sherlock's kiss, as they always were when he so rarely offered them, was commanding, cold, and dismissive, but against the very well-practiced lips of one Captain Jack Harkness, it stood no chance of remaining that way for long. So warm and so pleading were the supplications of his mouth that Sherlock was surprised to find himself allowing his lips to be parted, welcoming the gentle pull of smooth teeth on his trembling lower lip, noticing the icy press of the rough brick against the back of his head but no longer caring. His eyes slid closed and, enveloped in a heavy and sensuous roil of hot mouth and soft panting, his tongue ventured tentatively to brush Jack's lip, just a fraction of an inch and for a fraction of an instant, but Jack was nothing if not attentive, and reciprocated immediately with a firm but unaggressive press in kind.

Repositioning his feet to support his weight, his right hand pulled from the wall and cupped Sherlock's jaw, warm fingers alighting on his cheek, then brushing down his neck. Finally, that hand fell to Sherlock's hip, finding its way easily up under the coat and working in a smooth pulse as they kissed, gripping firmly then relaxing, over and over, serving both to unobtrusively free the corner of Sherlock's shirt from his waistband and to tantalizingly allude to a rhythm that his hips had not yet initiated.

Sherlock's mouth would now open willingly at his wordless command, but never one to be entirely submissive, he would welcome Jack's assertiveness only to temper it with soft bites and rebuttals, overcome but hardly docile.

Yet he was unable to suppress the soft moan that treacherously escaped his throat as his and Jack's lips parted for an instant. It was all the impetus that Jack needed, that one undeniable spark of desire.

"Keep making that noise," he panted, finally and unabashedly pressing the full front of his body against Sherlock's, holding him fast to the icy wall.

He obliged. In fact, could hardly stop himself. "Unh, Captain..." He turned pink a second too late, realising what he had involuntarily said.

Jack's hips bucked against him, pliant to that sound as to nothing else. "Oh, I love it when you call me Captain." As he tilted his head to engage Sherlock's mouth again and his hips played a slow, evocative rhythm against those of his captive audience, his other hand, its position on the wall now superfluous, lowered so he could begin prying open the buttons of Sherlock's borrowed coat. He had a difficult time of it, not only because he was fumbling between their close-pressed chests with his still-gloved left hand, but because the coat was _properly_ double-breasted, meaning twice as many buttons, twice as much time, twice the sweet denial of waiting.

It was too good a job to rush anyway, and he savoured it.

The coat finally fell open and Jack, realising that the shirt buttons would be considerably more difficult, reluctantly freed his mouth to bite the leather glove from his hand and, without even bothering to relocate it to his pocket, he slid his fingers carefully beneath the crumpled edge of Sherlock's shirt and tugged the rest of it free of his trousers.

Most men, when faced with the obstacle of removing a young would-be lover's shirt, would have instinctively started with the top button. Not Jack, Jack cut to the chase, Jack started at the bottom. As his right knee edged between Sherlock's thighs, his deft and well-experienced fingers toyed with the first button. He could have had it undone in a fraction of the time he actually took, but as he fumbled, his knuckles and wrist and the heel of his hand brushed faintly, repeatedly against Sherlock's fly, and even through the thick leather between his teeth he smirked self-confidently at what he felt.

He could play smug all he wanted, but his body couldn't lie for him. Jack admired his self-control. By now they were normally begging for it, by now he had usually drawn out more than a single, quiet "Oh, Captain."

He liked a challenge. He encountered far too few of them these days.

He had slowly, stumblingly managed three buttons, his eyes fixed commandingly on Sherlock's slightly dazed but still somehow slightly defiant visage, telling the young man without a word that if he wanted anything further, he would have to damn well wait, because there was a well-worn glove in the captain's mouth and he was enjoying the little involuntary shudders that Sherlock's body offered as his buttons were clumsily and unhurriedly dispatched.

"Stop," he panted abruptly, his hand catching Jack's wrist as he reached for the fourth button.

Undeterred, the captain gave him another especially entreating thrust of his hips, a little scrape of fingernails digging gently into Sherlock's soft skin and, his voice - muffled but no less charming through the glove - pleaded "Already?"

Sherlock gasped softly and tilted his head back against the wall as the captain's hand tugged firmly on his waist, rubbing Jack's groin into the slight groove where hip adjoined thigh, and letting him know with absolute certainty that "already" was far too soon.

"I don't mean...stop...stop _this_, I just mean," his trembling hands fumbled in his coat pocket for his key, "it's freezing out here."

Well, with his shirt half-off it was.

The captain grudgingly relented his advances and let Sherlock turn far enough that he could unlock the door and drag Jack through with him as it swung inward. Hardly allowing a foot of space between them, even as Sherlock tried to retreat a bit further into the dimly lit corridor, Jack made sure that the promised heat of the building was nothing compared to the heat of his lips and tongue pressing against Sherlock's neck. The young man nearly stumbled as he took his next step backward.

Mercifully, the lift was nearby, and by a more incredible stroke of luck, Sherlock lived in the only building on campus to _contain_ a lift. He had never thought much about it, but he appreciated it now, because two men can more easily get into much more trouble with one another on a very slow lift ride to the fourth floor than they could have if they'd had to split their attention between snogging, removing clothing, and ascending staircases.

Such trouble included – as the doors snapped shut – Jack finally relieving Sherlock of his remaining shirt buttons, then Jack realising he had lost track of one of his gloves and not caring, then Jack dropping eagerly to his knees to press his cool nose and his warm mouth to Sherlock's flat, bare stomach, then Jack kissing and biting that soft flesh hot and rosy pink before sliding the slippery-wet tip of his tongue as far as it would go into the shallow depression of Sherlock's navel, then... "Jack, unh, _Jack_..."

The captain had further insisted, with his hand on Sherlock's arse and that warm tongue thrusting and undulating in the furrow his belly, until the young man had amended his soft moaning with a more satisfying "Unh, _Captain_..."

It wasn't a power trip. Not at all.

_But you like me well enough as a Captain now, don't you, you cheeky bastard?_

If you had asked Sherlock the next day (and no-one did) he would have been able to tell you that there had been three unobtrusive and rather alarmed residents strolling down that corridor as the captain and his very-soon-to-be-lover had more or less tumbled out of the lift and retreated messily down a few doors until Sherlock was able to quite impressively locate, unlock, and open his own door without turning to look at it. He also would have been able to tell you that he had not cared in the slightest about those three, because his attention at the time had been entirely devoted to getting himself and one Captain Jack Harkness – and most especially Captain Jack Harkness's tongue - through that door with as few external interruptions as possible.

Axiom: students who do not play well with others should not be allowed, by educational officials, to share rooms with those they may inflict themselves upon. Sherlock Holmes (under virtually every circumstance barring this one) did not play well with others, and had thus been allowed his own room ever since his first year when his roommate had alleged that the young Holmes had been stealing blood (with a topical numbing agent and in small measures) from his fingertips as he slept for use in experiments.

Conveniently, this now meant that Sherlock's list of possibilities regarding how this situation would progress was virtually endless, and this – unexpectedly - excited him on several levels.

Both stepped out of their shoes as they stumbled inside, thoroughly entangled in one another. Jack easily pulled Sherlock's already-skewed coat from his shoulders to the floor, and likewise shrugged out of his own, not even bothering to finish the motion before leaning in to lock his host in another heavy, fervent kiss that forced him to step backward until the backs of his thighs were pinned against his mattress.

It would have been easy, so deliciously easy, to just let himself fall backward, to curl his fingers in the captain's belt loops and drag him down with him, to submit entirely to the brazen wiles that were drawing seemingly every drop of blood in his body southward, but he couldn't give Jack the satisfaction of undoing him so easily.

He balanced himself, and with less grace but the same fervour, he began brusquely unfastening the captain's shirt buttons, in a more predictable top-down fashion, but not wasting the investigative opportunity that Jack had so liberally taken with Sherlock at the bottom button.

Imperceptibly, through the tumult of their eager and unrelenting kissing, Sherlock smiled slightly and dared to press his palm against the firm reaction that was making itself obvious beneath the captain's very nice wool trousers. Sherlock felt triumphant, but he then was suddenly able to feel little else but aroused as Jack pressed himself encouragingly against the heel of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock was made keenly aware of every _inch_ of him.

Sherlock had intended to hold his own considerably longer, had planned to make the captain work a bit harder, but the press of the mattress against his legs was decidedly uncomfortable, and the press of his own intensifying erection against the rhythmic incitement of Jack's warm body was anything but. Thus, when the captain's hand ventured to slide from the small of Sherlock's back down to his thigh, he had allowed the shift to unbalance him, and acquiesced to being dropped rather roughly onto his back.

Jack, still authoritatively on his feet, bent low to suck at Sherlock's neck. His firm and intuitive right hand caressed the brilliant young man's flat, soft belly (the fleeting dip of his thumb into Sherlock's still-damp navel was hardly an accident) and his entreating mouth left deep, livid marks down the side of his neck as his knee slid up onto the bed, urging Sherlock's legs apart, and meeting with no resistance.

Sherlock made a small, breathy sound as the captain delicately but insistently slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, trailing fingers and lips and tongue and – just barely – teeth down Sherlock's pale neck to his collarbone, his chest, his sternum. He gasped as Jack teased his nipple, first his fingertips then his tongue, until it was exquisitely hard and until Sherlock was more than a little lightheaded.

Jack's unoccupied hand was busy pulling off his suspenders and – careful not to lean away for more than a second at a time – throwing off his shirt with a precision that betrayed just how often he had practiced just such a manoeuvre under just such circumstances.

Stripped to the waist and enticed further by Sherlock's defiant but undeniable arousal, he finally crawled onto the bed, forcing Sherlock to slide backward until he was flat on his slightly arched back, his knees bent and his hands twisting the bedding.

Jack knew – as he worried at Sherlock's nipple with his tongue and as his hands tugged slowly, deliberately at the young man's belt – that he would not dare to demand anything of his wilful lover. Some people liked to be commanded, to be forced, to be ordered. Not Sherlock Holmes. What Sherlock wanted at all times was control, and thus, even in a traditionally submissive position, he would not suffer to be _ordered_ to do anything, verbally or otherwise. Jack knew this, could feel it in the slight tension that remained in his shoulders, in the smouldering warnings behind his eyes. He had had enough lovers to know better. Thus, Jack did not command...Jack _begged_.

Sensuous, pleading, moans escaped his lips as they trailed down Sherlock's belly, only to pry once again into his navel with that slick, rolling tongue, sending a shudder through him that found its way down to his groin. Sherlock bit back a gasp but was unable to stop the subtle rock of his hips as tingling surges of warmth rolled through his abdomen. He could not quite muster a word of protest as Jack finally freed his belt, unfurling it from the loops with a soft hiss and went to work on his button, then his fly...he moaned softly in tandem with the growl of his zipper as it was undone, and his eyes pressed shut as the captain's soft fingertips trailed paths of heat and electricity down his thighs as he stripped off his trousers.

Sherlock was – finally – magnificently, opulently hard. Arguably, harder than he'd ever been in his life, not that it was something that happened often. There was no way of hiding it through his unforgivingly tight shorts, and no point denying it, so when the swarthy captain dared to sit back on his heels for a moment to admire his handiwork, Sherlock just smirked imperiously. Jack smirked right back at him, going to work on his own belt and dispatching it – and his trousers – in a matter of seconds.

The captain leaned forward again, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and pressing his flat stomach against his lover's groin. As his warm, quickening breath rolled over Sherlock's collarbone, he arched his back and rocked his hips, gaining a bit of momentum, repeatedly pressing and rubbing Sherlock's hard-on into a more urgent problem, even as he straddled Sherlock's thigh and rutted softly against his bare, warm skin. Though he could get virtually no traction against the bed, Sherlock reflexively, almost desperately, tensed his abdomen and pressed back as hard as he could each time Jack pushed against him.

"Not your first time, is it?" he teased gently, his voice low with desire, with focus.

Sherlock managed to scoff dismissively, even through his panting.

Lessening the pressure of his abdomen against Sherlock's groin, he slipped his hand between their slightly sweat-dampened bodies and hooked his fingers into the waistband of his young lover's shorts, pulling far enough to bear his narrow, rapier-sharp hip, but no further. "Good...then you know enough to know what you want."

Sherlock's impatience railed against Jack's teasing temperance. Biting his lip, he pushed his hand between his legs, gratuitously running his palm over his erection and dragging his pants down with it. With a soft, insistent moan, he thrust his hips upward, pressing his bare skin against Jack's hot, firm belly.

"What I want, _Captain_," he growled, "is not to be teased." Jack's longing bites left sweet, stinging marks on his shoulder, pressing him into the mattress until hardly an inch of his skin was without friction. "What I want is not to be made love to." Firm, indulgent hands slid down his thighs, pushing his shorts past his knees, then over his feet and onto the floor. "So just shut up, stop playing, and fuck me until my brain shuts off."

"When I make you scream," he murmured, as he dragged Sherlock's thigh up over his hip, as his expectant breathing quickening to nearly a pant, and as flesh pressed longingly against bare flesh and Sherlock moaned sharply, he growled softly "remember, you asked me for it."

The captain kept lubricant in his coat pocket. Sherlock would have made some snide remark about the sort of moral grounds that such a habit relied upon, but right now, right now he could bring himself to say nothing. He was too busy trying to draw a halting breath as Jack's slick, warm fingers slid inside him all the way past the second knuckle, fingertips angled upward until he felt a slight shudder straight through to his navel. The captain pressed and pressed and pressed_ harder_, but hardly withdrew and inch – hardly had room to, between their entwined bodies. Sherlock's toes clenched in time, and the throbbing in his groin intensified.

Jack quivered against him with anticipation, and while Sherlock was momentarily grateful that the first intrusion had been gentle, he was rapidly becoming aware that it was not enough, oh _god_, not nearly enough.

Maybe it wasn't only his lover who was so tremulous. Every inch of him was wound so tightly he could hardly tell, but regardless, Sherlock was _hard_ and Sherlock was _impatient_, and the smooth press of Jack's rather impressive erection rocking against the very uppermost part of his thigh, keeping time with the subtle movements of his fingers was making Sherlock's mouth dry with panting and his belly wet with precome.

His next moan was imploring as he pressed back against Jack's slippery, prying fingers, forcing them as far as they would go, and though the adept captain knew all too well what Sherlock was all too desperate to have, he forced himself to slow... to draw it out...just a fraction longer, to lean into his young lover's love-bitten neck and whisper, "I want you against the wall." A strained, pleading whimper rushed between Sherlock's clenched teeth, and he remained taut as a bowstring. He didn't want to move, he wanted it _now_.

"Turn over," Jack insisted, pulling back to allow Sherlock room to move, his voice balancing beautifully between a command and a plea, "turn over, get up on your knees, and lean on the wall." Another thrust of Jacks fingers promised his reward for doing so, making Sherlock's back arch stunningly before pulling out. His palm was slick with runoff lubricant, and he let it drag up Sherlock's inner thigh, nearly to his knee, and the sensation of it on his already over-stimulated skin was nothing short of immaculate. Unsteady, and feeling strangely empty after Jack's sudden withdrawal, he did exactly as he was told, rolling over and stumbling to the edge of the bed that faced the wall, but Jack was pressed against him before he could steady himself. His right hand closed over Sherlock's wrist, guiding his forearm over his head, and the young man obediently followed with his other arm as Jack's left hand slipped between his legs to push his knees apart, the captain's damp palm sending rolling waves of heat up his thigh. Sherlock's euphoric exhalation caught in his chest as Jack finally – _finally_ – pushed in earnest against him, already wet, slick with lube and maybe just a bit of precome, and just _that_, just the sumptuous pressure of Jack's cock against soft, expectant flesh was _almost_ enough. Almost. But god was he glad that it wasn't.

The captain's grip tightened briefly on Sherlock's leg, _Ready?_

_Yes, Christ, yes._ He moaned softly and rocked his hips back just enough that there could be no doubt as to his response.

He felt the tension in Jack's thighs, the heightening, concentrated push against his body's subtle resistance, and though he shuddered, there was hardly a breath of pain – inevitable, exquisite – as the suddenly, lusciously internalized pressure radiated through him, forcing a soft, breathy exclamation from his trembling lips and forcing his wet stomach against the cool wall. Jack gave him long enough to arch his back, to dampen his lips with his tongue, but not long enough to catch his breath before pressing tentatively further, then drawing his hips back, sadistically slowly, dragging slick and hot inside his young lover, sending another shudder through him that Jack felt profoundly, and for the first time, even he couldn't restrain the longing moan that he breathed into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock's head spun, and he no longer cared that a quiet, euphoric sound was being forced from his throat with every deep, fervent thrust of Jack's hips, shaking his whole body, making him feel hot and full and _oh god_, he was close…the tightness in his groin was so profound, so decadent, that he marvelled at whatever it was that Jack was doing to him; following orders, to a tee, fucking him until his brain shut off.

"Touch me…" he panted, far too aware of the wet slide of Jack's right hand on his hip, hardly able to bear the near-painful ecstasy of being so near the edge of his tolerance.

But Jack didn't touch him, only pushed him further, fucked him harder, made him want it even more, which he hadn't thought was possible.

"Jack," he begged, his voice cracking, pleading "god, touch me, please…"

"Scream for it," Jack purred in his ear, collected even through the rhythm of his panting, "scream for me and I'll make you come."

Sherlock could hardly catch his breath to speak, but the heat, the pressure, the friction of his lover inside him, the unbearable need consuming him could have made him do anything, anything it took. As Jack thrust into him his whole body tightened and he gasped out a sensuous cry that made even Jack tremble with the exertion of restraining himself.

Suddenly, he didn't _need_ to be touched. Jack's careful hands guided his hips, and as he slid out again, something in Sherlock peaked. With a violent jolt, he came, hard, drawing in his breath sharply and rocking back against his lover as he rode out the trembling orgasm, so luscious it nearly hurt, radiating through every inch of him.

Jack let him recover for a few precious seconds, but Sherlock didn't mind when he started thrusting again, his hands running tenderly over Sherlock's thighs, his chest, his hips. It still felt good, and something primal in him wanted desperately to feel Jack come as well, wanted to feel the throbbing and the rush of heat, wanted even Jack Harkness with all his experience and all his previous lovers and all his stamina to be undone. Even exhausted as he was, he kept pressing back, tensing and relaxing and doing whatever he could to bring Jack to the edge, to make him pant, make him moan, make him come, and it didn't take much more. Digging his short nails into Sherlock's skin, he gasped, and Sherlock felt the promised heat, the rapid, pining fluttering, and finally, Jack relaxed, drawing in deep, regular breaths.

They were both still for a moment, shaky and giddy, before Jack slowly pulled out and sat back oh his heels, a sweet, triumphant smile on his glowing face.

Sherlock remained where he was for a few long seconds, resting his sweat-dampened forehead against the cool wall, come and lubricant trickling sluggishly down his inner thigh, producing a sensation that he found oddly and inappropriately pleasant. Once he had his breath back, he collapsed back onto the mattress, drawing his knees up slightly and turning his back to the wall.

Jack had eased into a sort of casual recline, supported on his elbows, as though he thought himself a lounging god (with a lingering erection, which was appropriate), keeping a careful distance of a foot or so, but looking expectantly at his young lover, waiting for…something. He looked very collected, all things considered, not a hair out of place, barely sweating, just a hint of a smirk. Realizing that Sherlock was not about to break the silence, he laughed softly and announced, "you can play nonchalant all you like, but we both know how hard you just came."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively – a gesture made less convincing by the parting of his lips and the glistening of his skin – and his nose wrinkled as he noticed that his stomach and thighs were starting to go chill and sticky and feel unpleasantly wet. It occurred to him belatedly – very belatedly – that his unexpected lover hadn't bothered with a condom. His lips pressed together, and he decided, with his typical self-destructive bent, that he liked it better that way. The smell of latex was abhorrent anyway. He would need to wash the duvet later, though. "You kept your promises," he agreed tersely, but left it at that. Sherlock looked at him, glowing with post-coital pride, and realized that he wasn't sure what to do with him now. Was he supposed to let Jack sleep here, or could he reasonably dismiss him? Was cuddling obligatory, even for a spontaneous, random sexual encounter? He wasn't sure he liked the idea, and he was far from tired, anyway. All he really wanted was a cigarette, but even that could wait. "I'm going to ah…" he grimaced slightly "clean myself up."

"Am I invited?"

"Technically I don't believe you're allowed to be here at all, so trailing me into the shower would probably draw more undue attention."

"That's not what I asked."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and slid wordlessly from the bed, pretending that his legs were far less shaky than they were. He considered getting dressed for a moment, but he didn't quite feel up to it. Instead, he snatched up Jack's heavy wool coat and threw it on like a dressing gown, buttoning it closed far enough to not be indecent, and swept rather imperiously from the room, leaving Jack high and dry and still, frankly, a little wet. Jack, characteristically, was unfazed, and as he rearranged himself on Sherlock's bed, he decided impishly that he wasn't going to let this beautiful and intransigent specimen shrug him off like that, not for a moment.


End file.
